


100 ways.

by caticoo



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types
Genre: GJHJH, M/M, bc i use that as inspo, bc we're going deeper and deeper, deep, hell yeah, okay well im changing this to my storage for my 100 ways to say ily stuff, once again for ciel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2018-02-18
Packaged: 2019-03-05 09:21:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13384836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caticoo/pseuds/caticoo
Summary: collection of prompts from 100 ways to say i love you.





	1. #23 ; like he cares.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kirumi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kirumi/gifts).



> once again for ciel. im bored in a car and i need smth to do...  
> from the 100 ways to say i love you prompts. #23, "i'll wait".

“I’ll wait.”

You said this sentence so quickly, without pause or thought or hesitance, that even you’re surprised at yourself, albeit only for a small fraction of time. The concept of waiting was so undoubtedly familiar to you, that it would be odd if waiting was suddenly robbed from your daily life. You spent a lot of your life, the life before entering Hope’s Peak Academy, simply sitting around and doing just that – _waiting_. Whether it be for taiyaki to arrive freshly out of the oven or for the sailors you met and bid farewell to every single day, you’ve grown so accustomed to waiting that perhaps you could be defined by the word “wait.”

You chose to wait for plenty of things. It was one of the many things that you showed some sort of humanity towards – after all, waiting was something that you typically did for other people, and not for yourself. Alright, so perhaps that’s a little bit of a lie – a lot of the things you did wait for, you recognized, were only for your own benefit. You waited for taiyaki to satisfy your empty belly, something that only contributed to your own wellbeing. You waited for approval of your designs by the boat-builders, only so that you could gain the greater satisfaction about your work (even though you knew you were amazing at designing ships – you were greedy for more reassurance that your pride in your work was not unfounded.) You waited for the sailors to return to the shore, only so that they’d shower you in gifts and souvenirs (that you admittingly didn’t care much for after the typical momentary excitement) and praise you for growing older and looking older, too.

Time went by so quickly, that it was hard for you and your body to keep up. You know that you look incredibly young, for whichever reason – you think your voice has already been hit by the effects of puberty, but you’re not sure about anything else of yourself. You’re still small. You’re still short. You’re still weak. You’re not like the man that stands before you, the one that is like any other sailor you have ever encountered in your lifetime (and there have been far, far too many) – no, you couldn’t be this man. He’s an adventurer, a soul crafted out of the ashes of passion, and built like a building – you’re the absolute opposite. You prefer to confine yourself, you’re lazy, and you could be blown down with even the smallest breath.

You two are nothing alike, and there’s one thing that connects you and only one thing – the sea.

You’ve always had an indifferent, love/hate relationship with the sea. The sea is what you have been surrounded by for as long as you can remember – the salt of the ocean stains your nostrils just as much as the aroma of custard taiyaki and fresh fish nabbed from the watery waves. It’s where you were raised, and you’re sure the man in front of you as well as his brother, too, were raised as well. However, it is also the sea’s fault that the people you’ve known and cared about are gone, now, too – you remember the day where you were told that the sea betrayed you. The ocean, as beautiful as it was, was also a disgusting, revolting murderer – you knew that even before it took away the two people you cared most for, but it was then when the ocean’s cruelness was truly shoved in your face.

You could do nothing but become the person you are after that incident. Your position as a naval architect, you realized, was probably the only thing that got you and the seafarer before you to even get along – you’re unsure if that makes you happy or not. You wonder if he actually cares about you, or if he’s only interested in your designs, especially after you made one for him personally. Even if he turned out to not care about you in the end, it’s not like you’re unused to that sort of treatment – however, it does leave this sickening, gross feeling in your chest. Your stomach. Your mouth. Like that idea squeezes your insides dry, pounds you up and leaves you to rot when it’s finished with you.

You want the man in front of you to care about you, like the way that everyone else had once cared about you – well, not exactly. For some reason, you want him to care about you more than anyone else – not that it’s ever been that way before. For some reason, you want him to pay attention to you more than anyone else – more than anyone that you could ever think of or pass by or glance at or greet. He makes you want to give back, something that you’ve haven’t felt ever since your parental figures passed away and you chose to shut yourself off from everyone you ever met.

But for some reason, the Ultimate Seafarer, Kaito Nakajima, is that much different.

You want to make sure he’s laughing, he’s smiling – it gives you a warm feeling in your stomach, like satisfaction, like tranquility and peace. Which is weird, because you’ve never felt like that for anyone else – you could care less about anyone else’s smiles or joy. If people chose to be happy, it was entirely their own decision – it wasn’t your job to cheer them up when they were sad. You didn’t care like that because you believed happiness was your own choice. However, once, when you saw Kaito shedding tears quietly into his hand, you felt the complete opposite. You felt care.

You care about him that much.

Which is why it doesn’t matter to you how long you must wait for him to return from his sea trip. It doesn’t matter to you how much or how long you must stay around patiently, obediently. It doesn’t matter to you if it’s days, weeks, months, or years, perhaps – you’ve waited for others that long and you’ll continue to wait if that’s what will satisfy Kaito. You know he loves the sea more than anything else – it’s the same type of love that you have for taiyaki. And you know he cannot live without it – it makes him happy. And knowing he’ll be happy, that’s what drives you to saying you’ll sit, pretty, patient.

He looks at you with eyes of only contemplation, hints of melancholy, hints of joy and drops of concern. Then his hand lifts, carefully, up to your hot threads – unkept and messy as it is, save for some of your bangs, which you lazily hold up with only a couple of clips. You never cared too much for your hair, people found you cute anyways -- you only recall the fondness of a hair ruffle when he does it to you. People sometimes ruffled your hair anyways, but when it was his touch, it was that much more important to you, for whatever reason. You welcomed it kindly.

“Thanks, Rikuto,” He says, albeit with a bit of a quell, tinged with sadness that you hate the sting of – but something tells you asking about that is a little inappropriate. You wonder why he sounds this way, even though he’ll be off pursuing something he loves. You wonder. “Could I hug you…?”

You use no words, because words, you decide, are unnecessary. You don’t even want to put up a fight or front – claiming that “if it makes him happy” or “it’ll be the last time.” You know by now, your own feelings towards a tender thing such as a hug – that you desire it, and by none other than Kaito Nakajima. You desired no one else’s embrace, and you despised hugs for the most part – so why was it that you loved them from only him? Why was it that instead of him hugging _you_ this time, you hugged _him_?

He makes a sound of surprise, and you can feel your face burn up from the embarrassment. You’re happy that you’re shorter – he can’t see your face, nose buried in his shoulder. You hug him, gently, but as the embrace holds longer your grip gets tighter – and his arms, as powerful as you’ve seen them be, delicately wrap around your torso too, like you’re soft. Like you’re loved.

Like he cares about you just as much as you have recognized you care about him.


	2. #66 ; little evening.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> you dance and he watches, but you know he's the star of the show.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from #66, "stay over."  
> mildly nsfw oopsies

 “Stay over.”

Those are the words that you chose to say to your lover, lost in the evening light that traverses into your room. It’s been another long day after many – more so for him than for you, for you know that he’s the one that does most of the work. After all, he’s the man that had saved you from your previously short-term life – now, you’re reported to live for a normal lifespan. You couldn’t be happier, you couldn’t be more thankful, and you couldn’t be more appreciative of this man – the one that continues to work hard to save other people’s lives even after he worked tirelessly to save yours.

You absolutely loved that about him, among the field of plenty of reasons to why you felt absolute adoration for the scientist. You loved his determination, you loved his dedication, you loved his desire to save others – so many countless things you love, love, loved about him, and so little things you despised. And the things you despised about him were only because you loved him so, like how you despised some nights he’d overwork himself and pass out on his desk (not in your arms, [you selfish runt,]) or the times where he would send icicles of words towards the people whom have done no wrong to him (or at least you assume.)

Despite everything, you loved him. You loved him, and you still love him. You love him, and his name is Kazuo Sasaki.

You’ve never called him by his last name, and if you have, it was only because you were so fed-up with how he acted (exactly once, and the end result wasn’t exactly the most pleasant time), or for the sake of being formal in front of others. You cared little about the latter. You weren’t afraid and you’ve never been afraid to show off your love for Kazuo Sasaki – PDA was your forte. You absolutely didn’t let anyone not know that you two were together, in some way, shape or form – whether it be you calling out that oh-so-affectionate nickname you gave him from the moment you two met (“Kazu-chaaaan!”) or clinging to his arm, dressed in a clean white sleeve of his neat lab coat. You did this to show people he was yours. You were the only person he let do this.

It’s the same way now, as you wrap your arms around one of his own, embracing it as if it’s his entire body. You rub your face momentarily in his shoulder, masking yourself in his scent and burying yourself in the knowledge that the person you’re holding so dear is Kazuo Sasaki himself, and look up soon after. He looks pensive, for a moment – his eyes, only shining brighter in their brown glow in the sunlit room, show signs of thought and processing. But you know you don’t have to kick up your act and flash puppy eyes at him. You know that he’s weak to your persuasion, especially ones as soft and as small as a simple two words like “stay” and “over.”

Having Kazuo at your fingertips is entertaining, but not nearly as entertaining as being at the ends of _Kazuo’s_ fingertips.

You feel the breath of air as he sighs as if he is irritated (you know he isn’t). You feel his gaze fall to your room’s floor as he fixes those thick glasses of his, fitting onto his face (you think he’s handsome regardless if he’s wearing them or not). You feel the pierce of his look then shift towards you, softening significantly at your presence in his line of vision (you know, you know) as he uses his free hand to brush some strands of hair out of your face and behind your ear. You giggle, because you love it when he traces his fingers on you in any way. His touch is soothing and static, and is the only thing that will make you feel grounded.

You shift out of holding his arm, only so that you get a better position to rock on your feet and purse your lips. He knows what this means, and he knows it well – he’s smart, after all, the smartest man you know – and he delivers gladly, getting your message as if it was sent in radio waves. You know he’s happy with the way he too eagerly leans forward for you, for your lips – planting his own on them, as if they’re holed out and where they’re supposed to be potted. You feel as if this is true anyways. You know nobody else’s lips as well as you do Kazuo’s, and although you have kissed other people, nobody else has ever felt as right as you have with Kazuo.

He places his hands, tired and worn out from work, onto your hips – small and dainty, as if they’re still in their premature stage (they’re not, you swear they’re not.) In turn, your hands land on the mountains that are his collarbones, his shoulder, the area right above his chest, as if you’re going to push him away. You both know well that’s not your intention, though. If anything, it’s an invitation of dominance – you shiver at that thought. The thought of Kazuo dominating you. You imagine how he is when he reaches that state, when you push him over the edge enough so that he becomes a totally different entity.

It sends your mind into spins, really. It isn’t as if you two haven’t had times of total intimacy, of course not. You’re not like the most popular couple in school, who’s rumored to have sexual intercourse daily, or the pair of first years who have been caught multiple times attempting to get past second base in the hallways. No, you think you and Kazuo have a healthy amount of times of hot and heavy action – perhaps once or twice a week, more or less depending on schedules or how busy you two are. But you know some days Kazuo is absolutely itching to put his hands on you, to let you know how much you belong to him – those are the days where he’s particularly stressed, especially when you haven’t had a chance to stop by and see him for the majority of the daylight hours.

Unlike his typical softer demeanor to you, he treats you differently when he’s like that. He treats you in a way where your mind sends you into different sinful directions, that you’re sure that the Ultimate Exorcist would blink and tell you to reevaluate your fantasies. But you can’t help it, sometimes – you’re not the type that touches yourself often (you find no need to when Kazuo is at your disposal most of the time), but when you do, you don’t have as pure as thoughts as one might think you do.

Your kiss starts off chaste, like it usually does – Kazuo isn’t the type to go in hungry, most of the time, and you like a slow start, most of the time. It’s a gradual descent of hunger, as the both of you become more and more entranced by the other’s touch and kiss, until eventually your chaste kiss becomes something more of a French one. A moment of pure affection that seemed to stretch for a lifetime just as quickly became something of heat and pressure, like the walls closing in on you. It’s a good kind of feeling, and it’s not one you’re against – your heartbeat rises in your chest, proof that you’re well and alive since beeping is not present anymore, and so do your hands, shifting from his shoulders to his cheeks, digging for more. He’s greedy too. You feel it with the way his hands traverse lower and wrap around.

 The force he pressures against you grows stronger, until you find yourself backing up slowly, resisting only slightly to his push. You know what he’s getting at, you’ve been in this situation times before with Kazuo, but every time feels like the first – it gives you a euphoric, excited rush, and you can tell by the way his waist hits yours that he too is excited.  You smirk to yourself, for you know that you’re the one that made him that way – with the way you oh so happily complied to allowing him to roll his tongue over yours, the way you whined and let out careless sounds of pleasure when he used his teeth to bite down gently into the soft flesh of your lips.

You feel your feet hit the edge of your bed, and soon enough Kazuo’s hands shift from your behind to your wrists, and in a slow yet sudden movement, you’re pinned down right beneath his boyish body. The heat in your cheeks significantly rise, and you let out another moan at your fall unto the soft mattress below, the grip of Kazuo’s hands around your wrist, and the new pressure that has taken over in that quiet little evening room.

You whimper against his lips leaving yours, but it returns at a greater force when he chooses your neck as a new canvas in favor. His hands leave your wrist to regroup on the buckle of his belt (you know, you hear the familiar sound). The setting sunlight hits his hair, his beautiful, beautiful red hair. You pant when he digs his teeth into your skin, and it’s your own eyes that hit the light now.

You close your eyelids when he begins to leave a love bite (not without a corresponding moan,) and you let him drown you in much more than the rays of a sleepy sun.


	3. #29 ; summer.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> what would elvis presley do?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from #29, "well, what do you want to do?"  
> this one is all over the place..

“Well, what do you _want_ to do?”

That really was the question, huh.

You weren’t one to talk about the future, let alone yourself. It was like your path was so easily caved in for yourself – set aside by your parents, who were far to engrossed in the fictional world to care for a 3D guy like you. And to them, you were only some “3D guy”, at least, that’s what you believed – they’re disgusting, and you know that. You know that naming your child after some stupid fictional character, at least, with the thought of him, because you’re not _directly_ named after him, but the allusion is obviously there. You began to realize the wrongness of it all when you entered a certain grade. You forgot already.

Perhaps it was 3rd, or 4th, or 5th grade, but you know that you were not extremely young, but still innocent in the mind. You were approached by some girls asking if you knew the lyrics to some song called “Super Hero”, and when you did, and you sang, the girls cheered and asked for more of “your songs.” “Your” songs. These songs did not belong to you, rather, they belonged to that yellow-headed boy you saw plastered around your home here and there – that looked oddly, strangely, like you.

_“Ken, please wear this uniform.”_

 Your mother would tell you, handing you some seifuku-looking top, leg and arm warmers. A yellow tie. White headphones, that really didn’t match up for something of a “uniform”, but you wore it anyways, because they let you listen to the iPod they had given you. Except, there were songs only by one artist, and no matter what you said, your parents wouldn’t budge with changing it. This artist was named Kagamine Len.

His voice sounded robotic, and young. Like he was just brought out fresh from a sci-fi movie, you thought at first, and at first, you thought it was cool. Yeah, cool. Of all the things, all of the disgust you feel today, at one point of your life you thought that resembling this artist was _cool_. Of course, you can’t blame yourself (you’re wiser than that) – you were only a kid.

Only a kid that wanted to satisfy his parents, because that’s what every child wanted to do. Every child, including yourself, would want a loving pair of people to love them, treat them well, care for them like a normal human being. That was what a parent was expected to do for their child, and, in return, that child would give you the amount of love and appreciation that you gave to them. But alas, that was not really how it was for you – not really. You know that, around you, there have been people that have suffered far more than you have. (Because you’re selfish, you like to think your tragedy matters most to you.) You know there are people here with parents who wouldn’t dare touch the children that are now teenagers in this high school. And although your parents cared about you…

Did they really?

Was the person they saw their child? The thing that they worked together to become, the thing that marked their love for each other, or so you liked to think – or did they see something else in your existence? Was it really a mistake? Are you really a toy? Are you just some real life figma, for them to toss around and change the poses and expressions of? Surely, once or twice or maybe far too many times you could here them call you – “Len-kun.” Len-kun was not your name. Your name is Ken. But to them, sometimes, maybe intentional, maybe not—

Len replaced who Ken was.

You noticed their sudden disinterest in your affairs after your 15th birthday. Something about it was off, with how bland the party was in comparison to your 14th birthday. In fact, your 14th birthday was probably the best party they had ever thrown you – you asked for a bounce-house, and they gave you one. You asked for a cake of your favorite flavor, and they gave you one. You asked for several college textbooks on electric engineering, and they gave you them. It was bliss, but was it really for you? Because by then, you were not some dumb kid – you weren’t. You knew. 14 was the age Len Kagamine was.

You cried after your 15th birthday. You hated it. You hated it all. And maybe you could have passed it for some stupid hormones, but even now you still feel the sensation of hate towards your parents, for treating you like some 2D vocaloid. And not only that, but their sudden apathy towards your existence once you began to grow taller, your own person, a man. You even heard them a couple of times, discussing for a new kid.

Thank god you got scouted before then.

In your youth, other than the fact that your parents dressed you up like Len Kagamine, you got along well strangely with rats. Perhaps if you weren’t an electrician like you are now, you could have been some sort of rat trainer (but SHSL Rat Trainer doesn’t exactly flow off the tongue as well as SHSL Electrician. And you’re sure that being an electrician is much cooler, as much as people blatantly ignored you for even cooler talents.) It seemed like rats’ attraction to you seemed to follow to the rodents of HPA, as in a matter of weeks, the rats of the boiler room and basement were warming up to your hand – eventually, they became your family like the rats at home did before your parents hired an exterminator to wipe your house of them.

You cried so much that day. You like to call yourself cool, but you cry more than you’d like to admit – but a guy like you doesn’t look like you’d cry. A guy like Elvis Presley wouldn’t cry, unless it was while he was seducing some beautiful woman. Elvis Presley was your idol, a man of his own merit, a good singer (you know that Len Kagamine’s a singer too, but he’s fictional), a great dancer, a sense of fashion. You admired him the most out of anyone you knew. Maybe you aren’t Elvis Presley, but you try to be in some regards. Maybe if you weren’t an electrician, you could have—

“I want to go to America.”

Those words fall out of your mouth faster than you can think of it. The boy next to you has his eyebrows raised, as if he wasn’t expecting that sort of answer – and suddenly you’re snapped out of your daze, and you realize the whole situation right now. Ah – that’s right. You’re here, with him, this redheaded guy that you like to call your friend, in the middle of the summer heat, in a room. Your room. Your tank top is soaked, the fan’s blowing, and a coke fizzles of carbon in his hands. And he looks at you with curiosity, laid out on his stomach on your bed, in the direct trail of the fan that swishes back and forth to cool the room.

Your windows are propped up and the summer breeze is contributing to cooling you both down, but that’s it. It’s still humid. It’s hot. You wish you could go somewhere nice.

“Eh? America? Y’mean the US, right?” He says as if that isn’t obvious, the bandanna he wears fully under all his hair – pushed back from his forehead, yet, still, there are droplets of sweat on his temples. It’s truly a hot day. “I’ve done excavations there… places around the north states. It’s pretty over there. Smart scientists. You need to know English though, of course… Americans can be real hard on you.”

You look up and feel yourself smile. You can always rely on your friend to supply you with useful information, and it’s not like he just tears your ear off telling you useless junk – everything he says is meaningful, or useful to you. And it’s not like you’d be angry if he did just tell you stuff that didn’t interest you, because you’d rather do that than spend time trying to decipher rat squeaks, admittingly. As much as you loved your rat family, it felt lonely, always being around beings that didn’t even speak your language – it was nice. Being in a bedroom on a hot summer day and just talking, about things, and maybe in the long run, all of these things you thought meant something really only meant nothing.

But it’s not like you care. You’re having fun, and that’s what matters.

“I’ve heard. They can be pretty rude, huh? But still… I wanna go to the real place. Authentic and stuff, y’get…,” You say, but you trail of at the end of your sentences as your radio begins to play “Can’t Help Falling in Love.” You feel the urge to change it, just so things don’t get awkward between you and the boy you’re speaking to, because, you know, you two aren’t like _that_ — if you just cover the words up with your voice, drown out the lyrics you secretly loved dearly, then things would be okay. “I also… want to have a good future, I guess.”

“Good future, huh? Girlfriend, right?” He asks you, with those seafoam eyes of his and you feel yourself nod without much argument. That’s right, you want a girlfriend – and yet, you have so many expectations of her, that it’s a little ridiculous.

 _Like a river flows, surely to the sea._ “Right. Like a girlfriend, heh – like ya said earlier, I’ll find her one day and you will too, dude.”

 _Darling so it goes._ “Haha, thanks – man, but it feels like it’s gonna be forever, you know? Everyone’s getting together in this school, I even caught Jiro and Yuji getting a little cozy in Yuji’s lab. Can you believe it? I feel like we’re segregating the more days go by.”

“ _Some things are meant to be.”_ You say, and it’s partially because you want to sing, but partially because it coordinates with what you want to say in response to that. The only issue is, how can you recover from something so profound? “U-Uhm, what I mean is… y’know, flow of stuff. Like how it’s inevitable we’ll die someday, or that we’ll graduate – it’s a fate kinda thing. Maybe Jiro n’ Yuji were meant for each other.”

“Really, huh? Damn, makes me feel pretty lonely,” He says back, and he rolls onto your bed, laying down properly as he chugs some soda. A refreshing sigh. “Wish that fate stuff happened to me.”

You stand up. _Take my hand._ “Ah, it will. You just gotta be patient.”

He sits up. _Take my whole life too._ “Eh, but it’s a little tiring, don’t you think? Wouldn’t you rather find the love of your life right now?”

You look him in the eyes. _For I can’t help--_ “Ah…”

And he looks back.

“I really think I would, Yasu.”

_\--falling in love with you._


End file.
